


SABINE

by Oswald



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Guilt, Mindfuck, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:41:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oswald/pseuds/Oswald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was a good man. He was an honorable man. The other one wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	SABINE

**Author's Note:**

> Title: SABINE  
> Fandom: The Avengers  
> Genre: General/hurt  
> Pairing: None. Hulk/Black Widow if you want. EXTREMELY BRIEF Hulk/Iron Man  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Word Count: 1794  
> Warnings: Rape, assault, blood
> 
> I don't own The Avengers. Fortunately for them.

****

 

~*~

            “I used to be a ballerina,” She says, sweat dripping from her chin.

            Clint looks at her, slightly intrigued, slightly uninterested, and wholly disturbed. She’s got a bruise running along the side of her face—it’s turned bright purple. The punching bag has a hole in it. Sawdust leaks from it, pooling onto the floor.

            “I was good too. Trained for hours. Almost forgot that it was ‘assigned’ to me…I loved it.” She pants, red lips turning redder with saliva and sweat. Her hands are planted on the mirror in front of her, fingers spread wide. Her hands are tattered. Clint thinks of spiders. There are marks all along her shoulders and forearms and he realizes that, while he’s seen her this injured before, he’s certainly never seen her this _broken_ before. There’s something wrong with her eyes, he tells himself, there’s something wrong with _her_.

            “And I thought I was so beautiful.” The way she talks is so…self-depreciating. So scathing, so disgusted…Clint’s never heard her like this before. Never, not fucking _ever_.

            “I should have…” Natasha stops herself mid-sentence. Her eyes go wide; she bends down, and vomits. Bile splashes her shoes, the front of her pants. The smell is overwhelming.

 

            “What happened?” He asks.

 

            Natasha shakes and looks at him and screams in frustration.

 

 

 

 

 

            _He’s fast._

_He’s really fast._

_Oh god is it—Oh god he’s so fast_

_God, god god help me_

_no_

_No_

_NO_

_She thrashes in his grip, so he holds her tighter and she makes a noise of discomfort (it’s actually a cut off scream, but he can’t tell the difference)._

_He’s hard. Harder then he’s ever been. And her hair is as red as a rose, and her skin is as pale as snow, and she is beautiful. Delicate. Like a swan. The way her heart beats in her chest, the way she squirms and kicks and thrashes, oh this is beauty. And he has been lonely, so goddamn lonely, for god knows how long._

_And The Hulk has no inhibitions. Bruce may. Bruce would see this is wrong, and deep down, he KNOWS this is wrong, but he doesn’t fight the monster. Maybe he wants this just as bad as The Other Him does. Maybe he doesn’t—that is something Bruce will never be able to figure out._

_The Hulk rips himself out of his pants, shakes her once to daze her into a cease of her thrashing, and crouches down. His member quivers as it sits against her back, against that soft, slinky catsuit, and he thrusts that first time—gently (by The Hulk’s standards) and oh…oh there it is, that sudden relief. He does it again, again, and he can feel drool falling from his lips, and feel the snort of air from his nostrils, and again and again, and suddenly she screams. And she thrashes, and kicks behind her and her feet find purchase and it hurts. Not horribly, it’s not like it would NORMALLY feel if The Hulk was a NORMAL person. But it’s enough to make him angry. Angrier. How dare she interrupt him? Interrupt THIS?_

_He doesn’t shake his this time. This time he raises her up and slams her back down. She makes an odd coughing noise as all of her oxygen is forced from her. In his hand, he flips her over, squeezes her again and swings her against the bars. A normal woman would probably have died from just that. But Natasha is not normal. When he slams her back onto the floor (knocking what little breath she already had in her) she stares at him, enraged._

_But he can see the fear. Almost smell the pain. And it delights him. Oh, how it delights him._

_And he begins to thrust against her again. There, against the soft curve of her breasts, the slope of her body, and the smell of sex is intoxicating. Up and down, and Up and Down, and Up and Down, and he’s thrusting harder now, harder and harder, and her screams are going from angry shrieks to horrified wails, and almost there, almost there, almost there_

_**There**._

_He cums. It splatters down her front. All over her white skin and into her rose-red hair, and he feels that rush of pleasure, that wonderful, elusive, lust that runs through his blood and makes him roar in pleasure._

_And, in a brief second, he thinks to himself how wonderful it would be if he could tear that slinky cat suit off, open her legs and take her whole. The way she must feel inside; hot, slick, and tight. The way her body would be_ forced _to accommodate him, how it would feel just like a too-tight glove, milking him away. The way she would scream and thrash and how good it would feel as her insides would clench and catch._

 _Or how her mouth would feel, her tongue running up and down his cock, how she would drink down his seed. How he would force himself into her mouth, force her to drink him down. How she would be his, all his, how she would_ belong _to him and never reject him._

_He stares down at her, at her quivering, almost fragile state, and he grins, and steps forward. She presses herself back against the pipes and the machinery and can’t even scream when Thor bursts through the other side and tackles the beast. Off they go, tumbling into depths of the ship. And here she was, cowering against pipes._

            Natasha had pushed it out of her mind during the fight in New York (why was it everything happened in new york?!). There were bigger things to worry about, bigger fish to fry. But when it was all said and done and the last of their enemies had fallen, Natasha caught the look Bruce had given her. One of horrified shame.

            She didn’t know what to say to him.

            So she didn’t say anything.

 

            Neither did anyone else. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen her, covered in the monster’s semen—even Stark, who couldn’t keep his mouth shut to save his life, held his tongue.

            The Captain was the only one to say anything. It was brief and short, “If you need to talk about it…” and that was all. She was grateful, and thanked him as customary, but she really _didn’t_ want to talk about it. What had happened had happened, and to dwell on it would do nothing but distract her.

            But she couldn’t help but forget the fear. The one that had bubbled, down, deep, deep, down in her gut, that had paralyzed her, had let her become a victim.

            Natasha decided she should keep far, far away from Bruce for a while.

 

 

 

 

            Bruce had seemingly decided the same thing. After they’d sent Loki off to suffer whatever fate was ahead of him, he’s said his goodbyes and then went off into the world. Tony tried to make him stay, just for a little bit, telling him that “these things just happen” and “it’s not your fault.”

            But it _was_ his fault. He should have been in control. He should have stopped himself. And when Tony patted his back in that comforting way friends always did, Bruce smiled at him and thanked him. For what, Tony had asked.

            “For lying to me.” Bruce said, with that same small smile.

            There it was. Tony’s hand had pulled away, the lines starting to sink into his face.  And Bruce did something stupid and crazy and leant up and kissed his cheek.

            He leaves that night.

 

 ~*~

 

            Bruce went back home. Back to India, where he could blend into the crowd. He was happy there, in a place where no one knew who he was, what’d he’d done. He was content to live in the slums, with people who treated him like everyone else and not like a science experiment.

 

            At night, Bruce stares at his ceiling and strains to remember the things he wants to forget. For a moment, his father comes to mind.

            He’d always hated him.

            For what reason, he’d never really understand. He never really WANTED to understand—to leap so blindly into a man’s hatred and insanity was never a smart thing to do.

            He squeezed his eyes shut, but it couldn’t keep the faint light from peaking under his eyelids. There is a hauntingness to India, one that sticks to him like dew on grass. A fragile, ancient beauty—the sights, the sounds, even the way the rain patters on his dirty window, all flowing together. There is harmony here, Bruce reminds himself. He can hear people talking, walking. The water drains through the walkways, cleaning the muck and mess from the roads. On good days, when he can barely hear _his_ voice, he pretends he’s one of these people: not angry, not frightened. Just normal.

            It’s the only thing that keeps him sane now.

 

            In his dreams he sees the women he’d treated just a few hours earlier, her back shredded and bloody, her children clinging to her hands fearfully. He sees the blackened eyes, the split lip, and he doesn’t have to ask. He’s seen it all before.

 

            His mother looks at him kindly, and kisses his forehead. Her eyes are gaping holes, her mouth bloody, teeth broken. Her neck is at an odd angle, and the only thing Bruce can think about is how much baking soda it’s going to take the clean up his father’s mess.

            And then he wonders when her hair went from a soft chestnut brown to a fiery red.

 

            Pregnant women hold the hands of dead children, their breasts swollen with milk, their heads severed from their bodies. Bright red blood runs down their thighs, and birds pick at the decaying flesh. Color and sounds swill together and the sound of screaming floods his ears.

            Bruce awakes in a cold sweat. His home is in tatters, papers are strewn everywhere, and glass litters the floor. He’s standing in the center of the room, holding the neck of a broken bottle in his hand. There’s a cut in the palm of his hand that’s shaped like a star.

            His neighbors franticly knock at his door, convinced that there has been a massacre. He calmly walks to the door, opens it and tells him that’s he’s okay, he’s fine. He’s just had a very bad dream.

 

 

            They call him back. Tell him there’s another threat. Bruce doesn’t look up from his patient, a little girl with a broken arm. It’s been a month. He doesn’t sleep anymore.

            “We need your help Mr. Banner.” Says the kid they sent. He has bright red hair. Bruce thinks Fury has a sick sense of hurmor.

**Author's Note:**

> Music Used—in order of story:
> 
> Punching Bag: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v14zFWRgoBs&feature=plcp
> 
> Captured: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hjqbumUBagw&feature=plcp
> 
> India: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jrqNLjWA0QA&feature=plcp
> 
> Notes: Man, Plus5Pencil, this took me way too long to start. I hope you enjoy this, I know I had a good time writing it :d Hope you like the next two chapters and that this is what you had in mind when you requested this. I’ll post on the livejournal page when it’s entirely finished.
> 
> I'll add a 'soundtrack' to every chapter--hope you all like Ryuichi Sakamoto~


End file.
